Abdication
by nosmaeth
Summary: You could have been His king. (Warnings inside.)


_WARNING: **Might** be read as mild slash!_

* * *

 **Abdication**

You host a feast in the winter because Makalaure needs company. Makalaure is brooding, Makalaure isn't well. And you are too restless to be of any comfort to anyone.

So you send out invites and threaten your people into frantic work; cleaning, reapiring, building. By the time the esteemed guests arrive, Himring is so overwhelmingly majestic you do not feel like being home in it. But then nothing felt like home to you, not since your exile. This fortress might fool your enemies and visitors into thinking it is a stronghold of the glory of the House of Feanaro, but you know it is merely a shelter for the hunted. A temporary recess to hide from the malice… _But malice is not that easy to hide from._

„Why did you do this, Maitimo?"  
Makalaure keeps asking you about it still. Especially now that the High King is here. Perhaps his intent is not to voice his disapproval, and if not, he is the only one. But Makalure has ever been the seeker of truth and he refuses to accept your half-hearted excuses. So now, you evade.  
„Do not call me that!"

Most of the Noldor still see you as the one to follow, regardless of your own submission. Your wealth is equal to the High King's, your forces are formidable, your Himring is a place of might and power. And now it is almost a fair dwelling. You should be proud. The curtains are rich in color, the armors are adorned with gems and gold, mighty lords bow in your way, and yet…  
„Nelyo, whyever are we so alone?"  
There are about two hundred of your kin in your halls, listening to songs of your power and glory, and yet Makalaure wanders the windy passageways of Himring alone. You rap out a crispy answer, biting as the winter that howls through your doors.  
„Because everyone with any whisper of sense leaves us."  
„No, Nelyo. _We are the exiles."_  
Makalaure's fingers are permanently frozen to his instrument. „We are the ones who left."  
Makalaure mourns his love, you can tell… You can not mourn yours. His sorrow is alien to you, however hard you may try to understand. So you pull your brother back to the crowd, to the fires, to the warmth. Makalaure needs to be looked after. He needs to be cared for, like a newborn. Hunting for truth is too dangerous, too grueling a task. Listening to songs will do him good.

That night you sit in the most ornamental chair, highest above the people, and if there are some dark glances in the crowd, you do not care. This is your home, this is your place, your kingdom… and you ask _him_ to play the harp for Makalaure. You lean back, gaze intent and focused as he begins.  
You watch as his long fingers caress the cords and you can feel that touch running through you course, red strands. You can not help that unconscious gasp of guttural pain.  
No cold of Thangorodrim, no tool of Morgoth Bauglir can reach as deep as this elemental longing.  
Your grip tightens on the cup and you stand up and leave the room, feeling his betrayed gaze on your back. You were rude and cruel, and your breath is shallow, and your ears are ringing.

You do not return to the feast, to the fire, to him… You stand out in the snowstorm with a flask of wine, hair unbound, shirtless and barefoot. No touch of that winter wind is enough to soothe your need, that pull in your core. No amount of wine can numb your senses, your sharpened awareness of your own bareness.  
Hanging above the realm of shadows, vulnerable as you were, you still had more power than you have now.

„Maitimo."  
„Do not call me that!"  
„Maitimo."  
You sink on your knees and gaze at the maze of unpredictable, dark woods in front of your carefully guarded realm. Somewhere not far a rabbit gives its last cry to greet the hungry belly of the fox; the sound shatters the night to biting shards, cruel fragments of reality. You keep hoping and fearing that he might leave you if you ignore him now.  
But then he walks in front of you and tilts your chin. And you do not resist, you just kneel and gaze at him in complete submission. _You_ could have been _his_ king, and yet you can not bring yourself to see it that way. To even care.  
His dark locks flutter against his face displaying shocking disorder. _His hair is always so neat._  
„Maitimo…" There is infinite gentleness in that voice. Somewhere an icicle gives in to the wind and falls to the ground shattering loudly to pieces.  
„Don't." You rasp out, shaking.  
„Maitimo." Warm fingers trace your face and you crumble.  
„Don't. Please… Please."  
 _But even you do not know what you beg for._

The morning is not glorious; it is dim and foggy and the sun sheds a messed gray light, but there is some sense of warmth under the forgiving blanket of clouds. Melting icicles drip on your heads as you walk beneath the parapet. No words pass your lips and he is mute as well, and your shared silence, though not tense, is heavy with troubled thoughts. You both walk with a calm dignity; your movements measured, graceful and synchronized.  
Perhaps you only can feel that he is fluid where you are rigid, he is light on his feet when you are heavy and earth-bound. He floats and smiles and greets his escort calmly, kindly, and mounts his steed with perfect ease. You stand there regal and immobile, face unchanging voice even and controlled, filled with such authority that you sound like a foreign king not only to his people, but to yourself and possibly to him as well. But he takes no notice of your distance, of your awkward speech, he just orders his soldiers to move.  
Only when the troop is halfway through the gates does he lean down and reach for your hand in a wordless farewell.

You give him the right one to hold.

* * *

 _Hopefully the only liberty I take here is placing a forest by the feet of Himring (which-according to geographical infos - is not very likely to be true.)_


End file.
